


Dr Watson and Mr Moriarty

by Elliot_S_Roy, robin_X3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence after Season 3, Gen, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, inaccurate mental health science, kinda Jekyll and Hyde, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliot_S_Roy/pseuds/Elliot_S_Roy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_X3/pseuds/robin_X3
Summary: Set after season 3“So you see John, the messages, the murders, the bombings, the games, it was all you."“Oh God ... what have I done?" John sagged to his feet, unable to bear the weight of what he did, and what he was about to do, any longer.
Kudos: 14





	Dr Watson and Mr Moriarty

John was shrouded in darkness, blackness that seemed to swirl and settle like inky mist around him. He tried to move his limbs, but realized he had no control over them. It was as if his body had a mind of its own, and he was a spectator in his own shoes: prowling through endless corridors, on a hunt for something.

Like looking through a bleary, out of focus set of binoculars, he saw someone going through the meticulous motions of cleaning up a bloodied knife, and spotted a particularly gnarly-looking corpse at their feet.  **Murder** ! Someone had just been murdered!  _ Why couldn't he stop them!? _

They were moving now, hurrying through streets and entering into a set of apartments that looked eerily similar to John's own. He could only hope Mary wasn't in there. Though he had no doubt she could easily more than fend off any above-average attacker, with her condition, so close to her due date, he didn't want her to go through such stress. He could really use some help right now! And where was that damned detective when you needed him? Where in the Queen's name was...

"Sherlock! " John almost cried out in relief.

There, across the room, beside the entryway, was Sherlock Holmes, dressed immaculately in his dark suit, blue scarf and famous deerstalker. His face was a picture of grim amusement and weariness, but there was a pattern of creases on his forehead that John had learned to identify as his "No funny business" look, one that was completed by the shining muzzle of the L9A1 Browning that was trained at whom John could only presume to be the perpetrator.

" _ Interesting _ . So it was you after all," Sherlock mused out loud.

This earned a throaty chuckle to erupt from somewhere within his vicinity. He tried to spot the person who this voice belonged to, the one Sherlock was having this confrontation with, but try as he might, the only thing he saw beyond his current line of vision was darkness.

“ _ Was there ever a _ **_doubt_ ** ?"

The voice was laced with danger and amusement, a provocation all on its own, the words goading Sherlock to parry along with the unknown foe. The deep tenor of the voice was so familiar, as if John had known it all his life, however the identity of the perpetrator eluded his grasp.

"Normally, I'd be obliged to say no,” Sherlock retorted matter of factly, “But this time, the one I doubted was not you, it was me."

John mentally staggered at that: Sherlock not doubting the criminal, instead questioning his own logical reasoning skills, his instincts, and even admitting his own weaknesses to the adversary? What was going on? Who exactly was this person? And why the hell couldn't John see him?

"Hear! Hear!" John heard that voice chuckle mirthfully, "The great Reichenbach Hero says he doubts even himself! Now whoever shall we go to now that the  _ Apocalypse _ is upon us?"

"Oh now you are being cruel on purpose." John heard Sherlock complain, and did he just see Sherlock pout? But then the playful amusement was gone from his voice, like flicking a switch on his persona, and he was in his serious 'detective business' mode. "Really, is that what you were trying to do? To bring the  _ East Wind _ to England? But for what? What made you risk so much, take so many lives, and break all these rules?" and he looked genuinely perturbed.

" _ Rules _ , Sherlock? This is a  **_GAME_ ** ! There are no rules."

The words so reminiscent of Moriarty. Was this Moriarty? Was he truly back? But hadn’t Sherlock said Moriarty was dead and someone was merely impersonating him?  _ Why couldn’t John see who it was? _

"But for what purpose?" Sherlock demanded.

"Isn't it obvious? It's all for  **_YOU_ ** ! I did it all for you,  _ so you wouldn't leave me again! _ So that you wouldn’t go God knows where! So that you'd stay back and play the  _ game _ !"

"So this is what this all is to you, a game? You hacked into National Security, broadcast-ed fake edited videos that made it look like Moriarty was back, rigged the London Eye with bombs and threatened to blow it up along with all those innocents abroad and even compromised the  _ British Government _ !" 

John couldn't be sure whether Sherlock was acting or whether he was genuinely shaken up this much to question the morality behind the crime. For that wasn't the Sherlock that John knew. No, Sherlock wasn't a man of morals or ethics or justice. He was a man with his own agenda, one who made his own rules and followed them.

A pause, and the tension seemed to lay thick in the air.

"Don't tell me you don't like the games anymore, Sherlock?" the voice replied, cool even when facing a gun, and with a lilt the like of which reminded John strongly of Moriarty. The voice had gone quiet in the way Moriarty did when he was displeased by something before bursting out in shouts, the extreme highs and lows of the man’s personality leaving everyone off kilter. 

And the perpetrator moved then, aiming his own gun at what John assumed to be an unconscious body lying at his feet, he made a mocking gesture with his hand at Sherlock as if to say  _ 'What will you do now?' _

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock warned.

"Oh  _ really _ Sherlock?" the voice chuckled darkly, humorously, "Do you even know  _ who _ I am anymore?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked confused, hesitation evident on his usually guarded, emotionless face. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Sherlock Holmes cocked his gun in reply, aiming it straight at the man's head.

"You know you won’t be able to do it Sherly  _ dear _ ," dark, viscous amusement laced the words and John could feel the twisted, arrogant smirk in the man's voice.

"Well then you don't know  _ me _ either."

_ BANG! _

All of a sudden, John was broken out of his hazy stupor, as the sound of a gunshot rang out. As he regained his consciousness he became aware of a growing pain in his left shoulder.

His bad shoulder. Like muscle memory from years of experience as an army doctor, he made a quick diagnosis of the injury- the shot was clean, decisive. It would prevent any further movement, so his actions were restrained for now. He tsk-ed mentally, for such heavy trauma to an already damaged arm would definitely result in him not being able to use it again.

_ ‘What am I even doing?’  _ He thought to himself, the pain bringing him back to the planes of reality.

He gripped his shoulder and whirled up to face the perpetrator, and there, behind the smoking barrel of the gun, was...

" _ Sherlock _ ?!"

"Drop your gun John."

"What?"

"I believe you heard me the first time, John. Drop it." Sherlock ordered, and inclined his head towards John's feet.

Baffled, John lowered his gaze, and there, sure enough, was a gun clutched expertly in the fist of his wounded arm. Blood now dripped down his arm and added to the rapidly growing puddle at his feet, and a wounded body lay sprawled in front of him, the body of Mary Watson.

John looked at the gun in his hand, then at the body of his wife lying at his feet, a cold feeling of dread and nausea welling up in his stomach. He looked up at Sherlock again who had an almost pitying somber look upon his face, one that spoke volumes. He connected the dots.

“ _ Oh God _ ... what have I done?"

John sagged to his feet, unable to bear the weight of what he did, and what he was about to do, any longer.

He felt Sherlock walk up to him, but couldn't meet his eyes.

"I take it you weren't aware of what you had been doing until now." Was there pity in his voice? A sigh, then, "I'm sure you've had it all figured out by now, but just to be clear, John, it wasn't your fault, not entirely."

"What?"

Sherlock looked at John’s defeated form, his lips curled in pity as he began his spiel of deductions with his usual utter brilliance. 

"Simply put, you couldn't bear to have me leave you again like that. When you came back from the war, your PTSD was severe. I could tell that you were on the verge of being suicidal. I thought you had gotten better after our adventures. And I suppose, you had for a while. But then Reichenbach happened and you lost your adventures, you lost me, your tether to your sanity. And that's when it began.  _ You couldn’t lose me again. _

And to stop me, you did the one thing you knew I couldn't resist: you created a  _ game _ for me, a challenge. With those series of Moriarty-esque messages you had me hooked, and the rash of killings and bombings assured that the officials wouldn't get much time to complain about the return of the only person capable of dealing with this. They left us alone, with their hands full with the mass panic of the messages, while you worked under the shadows.”

"Y...You're saying I did all this? " John croaked out.

“The mind is a fragile thing, John,” Sherlock said, as he came to a stop in front of John, “To keep me from leaving, your mind fractured and became something that could keep me here.”

A pause.

“When you came to see me off at the airport after the incident with Magnussen, I had noticed something off about you, but I didn't nitpick on that. Perhaps if I had, you wouldn't be in this mess right now." He sounded almost apologetic.

"You developed a Split Identity; you became a pseudo Moriarty. With the help of your loving wife who was ready to do anything if it meant gaining your love, and a select handful of others like her from the underworld, and subtle threats and manipulations of higher ups at just the right places, you managed to create the most elaborate game of crime and killing that I've solved.”

“So you see John, the messages, the murders, the bombings, the games, it was all you." Sherlock finished, grim amusement lacing his voice.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written long ago before season 4 was released.  
> This is a re-post from my old fanfiction.net account.  
> Hope you guys like it!


End file.
